


influence applies even to angels

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: crosspost from my tumblr, ineffable husbands implied but not stated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 21:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20347162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Those’re all small steps,” Crowley had said to him over a drink in the bookshop one time, “to getting fired. Make that Fired. Capital F.”Aziraphale had frowned at him, as stern as he could be on his 6th glass. “Ohhh. Shut it.”(aka: i read a good ficlet on crowley losing bits of hell like Dog did. so, i wrote the subversion for aziraphale.)(orphaned- check out my tumblr @hooh-generator for completely unrelated content)





	influence applies even to angels

**Author's Note:**

> crosspost time baybe
> 
> hey!! i recommend reading the ficlet i took this premise from first. find it at the below link!! (i’ll fix them into hyperlinks when i can get on a computer)
> 
> https://ineffabilties.tumblr.com/post/187104602146/ohblessit-nybble1981-so-i-woke-up-today-with
> 
> the link to my version of the post w this upcoming fic will be at the bottom notes too heehoo

Aziraphale was truly just as bad at being an angel as Crowley was bad at being a demon, if one took the time to consider the pair.

Angels weren’t designed to be malicious. But, as proven by the Fall, they could be if they put in an effort. Angels often had to put effort into things to accomplish them, eventually resulting in them not doing much. Filing paperwork and filling out reports, however, those tasks took no effort. Thus, modern Heaven grew from a Holy Army into more of a Holy Bureaucracy. No one seemed to mind. It was a natural progression.

Aziraphale did mind, though. He rather liked putting in an effort every once in a while, into various tasks of various moral natures. He found it more enjoyable that way. And, sometimes, those efforting tasks ended up being more demonically-inclined.

The first time his tendencies of any unholy sort truly came to light was when he let slip the word “tempt” from his divine mouth. It had come out so easily, considering his internal monologue had frankly been using the word quite often and quite casually as time had passed. Crowley had given him a look for that, a real Look, but Aziraphale tried to ignore his slip up. Couldn’t have a demon knowing things about him like that. He could take that to his advantage with… oh, all manner of demonic things. Who knows.

Post-Arrangement, the two would often double up on their duties. Depending on convenience, sometimes Aziraphale would end up performing husbmiracles here and Crowley’s demonic interference there. It didn’t always sit right in his gut, to be doing this, but it didn’t entirely bother him either. Crowley said both Up- and Downstairs didn’t mind, long as the angelic and demonic happenings happened. And, Aziraphale couldn’t deny, no one had seemed to bat an eye.

As an angel, he wasn’t originally meant to do things against his nature. While he might not combust like a demon will in a church, he would instead feel incredibly uneasy doing things the Wrong Way. It was more of a metaphysical pain than a physical one. Moral obligations pulling and twisting and wrenching at guts. That sort of feeling.

When he first did things that he knew he shouldn’t, it was one of the most mentally painful feelings he ever experienced. Yet, each time a “wrong” choice was made he felt less and less pain over it. He’d had to take small steps with it over centuries of course, carefully tip-toeing from mildly selfish acts, to inconveniencing humans around him for the things he wanted, to hedonism, and the like.

“Those’re all small steps,” Crowley had said to him over a drink in the bookshop one time, “to getting fired. Make that Fired. Capital F.”

Aziraphale had frowned at him, as stern as he could be on his 6th glass. “Ohhh. Shut it.”

“F stands for Falling, Angel.”

“I can’t! They- There’s not been another fall since yours, really,” Aziraphale pouted. “Don’t think they’d Fall me alone.”

“I’m just saying. Don’t want you joining my lot. You wouldn’t like it,” and he seemed to weigh his words, before quietly adding, “you don’t deserve it.”

Aziraphale had merely tutted at the time and poured them both another glass. He still remembered the conversation, though. He very much remembered it. It stuck with him, much like the comment from Eden. That comment Crowley had delivered all the way back at Eden had always stuck.

“Be funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one?”

It had been a joke. He knew it was a joke. But, by God, it had stuck with Aziraphale then, and it had stuck with him ever since.

He felt a considerable amount of his holier-than-thou flake off when he yanked the Thundergun into his possession and aimed for the head. He could practically feel Crowley’s eyes burn into him as he aimed at the Antichrist. He could practically hear Crowley hissing, “Dear SOMEONE, Angel, that’s still a kid!” But Aziraphale would kill, would do anything for antique bookshops, for dining at the Ritz and getting crepes in Revolutionary France, for Crowley, for personal indulgence —

No, no no, for humanity! Definitely not for selfish gain. Not at all. Not one bit. This was for the world. Righty-o. World saving.

He didn’t end up needing to disobey a Commandment that day. He hoped he wouldn’t need to for a while, considering the Apocalypse became the A-_not_-calypse. And he hoped the fact that he didn’t do it would count for something. He really hoped it would.

Being escorted down into Hell sure was an event of its own, as well.

By all means, every inch of his holy being should have been having a meltdown in the pure discomfort at the place. It was Hell! How could an angel walk through Hell like it was any other place? Unheard of. He should have been obvious to spot.

Yet, rather than squirming at every step, rather than his angelic Sin Alarm going off at each turn… Aziraphale found himself sauntering and having a spot of fun. Seeing the looks on all the demon’s faces was priceless as he took a dip in holy water. He threw a splash at them, and only then realized a window separated him from the hoards when the water got halted. He wished he could have gotten a few of them with it anyways, for the kick of it, but would absolutely deny that urge later on. Later, he entirely felt that he’d accomplished his task Down There when he came back up to London, especially after being dismissed on the grounds of “unkillable, question mark.”

Even after all the time that Aziraphale had spent on Earth, through millennia of changing and fluxing laws and customs and cultures, through all the time he spent convening with Crowley, he’d never think it could make much a difference on him. Why, he was an angel! He had still gone Upstairs for reports every past century or so, he seemed holy enough. How could all that influence make a difference on him? He was an _angel_. His holiness was ineffable. It simply had to be.

But he found himself stood corrected one day, sitting peacefully in the middle of his bookshop to show some care for his wings. He found a rather peculiar thing at the tail ends of his wings.

Black feathers.

**Author's Note:**

> as promised, here’s my post as well!
> 
> https://akrillie.tumblr.com/post/187139687549/ineffabilties-ohblessit-nybble1981-so-i
> 
> thank u for reading have a nice rest of ur day<3333


End file.
